


The Man in the Mirror

by HakeberHooligan



Series: Department of Mysteries Monthly Prompts [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coping, Gen, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, This is kinda dark and I'm sorry for that, Thoughts of Suicide, loss of a loved one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 04:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/pseuds/HakeberHooligan
Summary: George doesn’t like mirrors.He can’t stand the sight of his own reflection: haggard, sunken, and a reminder of what he lost.Whohe lost.- - -Or, George trying to cope with the loss of his twin, and struggling to find the will to live.





	The Man in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> For the May prompt: Write a story about a witch or wizard's experience or life after Voldemort is defeated by Harry Potter.  
> \- - -  
> Hey guys. Gonna say it right now, this was downright cruel of me to write. I'm sorry, and I take full responsibility for any tears shed. This even made me tear up while I was writing it, and that's _never_ happened before. You've been warned. Take care of yourselves <3

 

     George doesn’t like mirrors.

     He can’t stand the sight of his own reflection: haggard, sunken, and a reminder of what he lost. _Who_ he lost.

     The wizarding world is still rejoicing. Voldemort’s been defeated, the death eaters have fled, and the Ministry has been reclaimed. All in all, it’s the high point of history in the last century. May 2nd, 1998 is a day that will be written in down as one of the most important dates, as the day that the world was saved. But for George, it isn’t a day of celebration.

     He knows that he isn’t the only one who lost someone. Parents lost children, brothers lost sisters, and lovers lost each other. But he doesn’t have to _feel_ those losses, or experience the tethers that bond them together sever as they take their last breath.

     He lost some friends, but there’s one loss that he feels more acutely than the others. It’s like a perpetual knife that twists in his heart, not enough to kill him, but just enough to be a constant reminder of a pain that he’ll never really heal from. A loss that he’ll never overcome. Every time the proverbial scab starts to form, to staunch the flow of emotions that are so much like blood that weeps from a wound, the knife is wretched again, breaking the fragile seal and allowing a fresh, neverending flow of torment.

     Seeing his twin, his partner in crime, his other half, laying on that stretcher among so many other dead was when that knife was plunged in. It had taken his breath away and caused his legs to give out. He’d collapsed to his knees, numb and unbelieving of the sight he witnessed.

     He was vaguely aware of his family around him; his brother Percy embracing him, Ron rushing to Fred’s prone form, and his mother wailing. At least, that was until the ringing in his ears became too loud, blocking out all noise. Tears had pricked at his eyes, but they hadn’t fallen. The battle wasn’t over, and he wouldn’t succumb to the pull of despair.

     So he’d disassociated, blinked his tears away and helped with what needed to be done. Gathered the rest of the dead, wondered where Harry was, and hugged those who needed the physical contact.

     Even through the end of the battle, he’d been steadfast. Devoid of emotion, stoic, and functioning on autopilot. After, when Harry had delivered the killing blow, his father had clasped a hand on his shoulder and simply asked, “George?”

     George had shook his head, a sharp, jerking movement, and gruffly replied, “Don’t.”

     And he kept it together. Through the battle, in the hours after, all the way up until they’d trudged through the front door of their home, tired and dirty. The house was dark, but they all knew their way around it so well that it hardly mattered. On his way past the family clock, he’d stepped on something small and hard that bent under his shoe. He lifted his foot and groped around in the dark until his hand brushed against cool metal. Once his fingers closed around the object, he knew it for what it was.

     Fred’s clock spoon.

     That was the moment the wall he’d hastily built had broken, a tide of emotion roiling forth with the force of a tsunami. For the second time that night, he’d fallen to his knees, but this time it was with a sob that wracked his entire body. His family had gathered around him, Hermione and Harry too, and they’d all cried together. Mourned for Fred and everyone else they lost that night.

     It could have been hours they sat there, or maybe it was only minutes. He lost his sense of time, but after a while the tears didn’t flow anymore, the sobs turned to soft keens, then to silence, and the knife in his chest had settled permanently in its new residence.

     The next morning, after everyone had showered, slept, and pushed food around on their plates until they eventually threw it in the trash, they’d tried to talk to George. He stayed in his room, unwilling and uncaring to join them. He didn’t lash out, or scream, or get angry. He thinks that’s what worried his mom the most. The resignation that he displayed.

     She was hurting too, and every time he looked at her the knife twisted that much more cruelly. He knew that when she was looking at him, she wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing the son that she’d never hold again. Never kiss, or hug, or yell at in exasperation. He was a living, visual reminder of the son she had lost.

     - - -

     The first time he catches sight of his reflection is three days after the battle, when he uses the bathroom for the first time during the day. The sun shines brightly through the window, and it’s a stark contrast to how he’s feeling internally. On his way past the sink, he glimpses his reflection. His stomach flip-flops, and his heart stutters in his chest.

     “Fred?” He croaks before his brain catches up to him, helpfully supplying _it’s your own reflection, dumbass,_ and he’s left feeling like he’s been slapped in the face. The knife that he’s grown accustomed to twists painfully, settling deeper in his chest and taking his breath away, leaving him gasping for oxygen. His vision dims and he backs into the wall, clutching his chest with a shaking hand. His lungs refuse to cooperate, and he’s left feeling like he’s trying to claw his way out of a hole that he’s being dragged into by his ankle.

     Later, he learns that he had a panic attack, the first of many. Every time he sees his reflection, without fail, it will send him spiraling into another episode. By the end of the week, his mother has removed or covered every mirror and reflective surface in the house. It’s done silently, and even though he knows it’s done out of love, he can’t shake the feeling that it was done out of shame. It doesn’t make any sense, he _knows,_ but it doesn’t stop him from feeling like a burden.

     Things get worse. He’s not eating, because anything he puts in his mouth tastes like ash and wet cardboard. He doesn’t cry anymore, either. The panic attacks make tears spring in his eyes, but they’re unshed. His family tries their best to include him in everyday life, but it doesn’t elicit any emotion from him. He’s emotionally wrung out, a shell of his former self. He’s a void. A husk of a man that poorly imitates life, and not much else.

     It isn’t until his mother finally snaps that things change. He’s sitting with his family for breakfast, as he does every morning, pushing his eggs and bacon around on his plate. Fred always stole his bacon. He hated it. Now he’d gladly give up bacon entirely for one more conversation with him.

     He startles when his mother stands and slams her hands down on the table. Everyone else looks surprised as well. Her face is red, and angry tears slip down her cheeks in rivulets.

     “I have _had_ it George. _Enough._ I’ve already lost one son, and I’ll be damned if I lose you too.” There’s a fierceness in her tone and it backs her words, promising hellfire and brimstone to anything that comes between her and her family.

     For a terrifying second, he thinks that his weakest moments have been found out. That she’d somehow known how he silently crept to the shed after everyone had gone to bed. It’s not as if he slept anymore, not with the nightmares.

     When doxycide is sprayed, it’s just enough to paralyze a doxy, but doesn’t affect humans. Drink an entire bottle though, and it’ll paralyze you so severely that your heart will fail.

     He clutched the bottle for several long minutes, so hard that his knuckles turned white. He even went as far as to lift the mouth of the bottle to his lips, before pulling it away, and then repeating the movement several times. He just wanted the pain to stop. He felt like half of him died with Fred; half of his soul was ripped from his chest and stuffed into the ground with his brother. He couldn’t live like this.

     But then he thought about his mother, his father, his brothers and his sister. They lost a son and brother too, and who was he to so callously take another from them? He set the doxycide back on the shelf and went back to bed. He could keep going, if only just for them. He could survive, even if thriving was far out of the question.

     But no, if she had seen him there, that night in the shed, surely she would have mentioned it before now? So why was she so angry? He was here, wasn’t he?

     “I’m- I’m right here, Mom. I’m not going anywhere.” He’s stunned, a little unsure of what else to say. In fact, it's more than he’s said since that night.

_“No,_ you’re not,” she all but snarls, jabbing a finger in his direction from across the table. “You walk around like a ghost, like you’re already laying in that grave right next to Fred!” Her voice cracks, and she chokes back a sob. Everyone at the table gasps. They haven’t been able to say his name, not out loud, since May 2nd. Molly continues. “What would he say, George, if he saw you like this? He’d be furious.”

     And that… the knife should be twisting, pressing in deeper, making that familiar crushing heaviness in his chest flare up, but to his surprise it feels like it pulls out. Not enough for the healing to start, but just a little. He takes a sharp intake of breath, and it feels like that weight is lifting minutely.

     He feels a tear escape his eye, leaving a track on his cheek that speaks of loss and despair, of anguish and pain. What _would_ Fred say? He would shake George by the shoulders and tell him to get over himself. Then he’d make some snide comment and make George laugh until he cried.

     “I’m sorry, Mom,” George gasps, sending his chair flying backwards in his haste to stand up. He nearly trips running around the table, crashing into his mother’s arms with force enough to send them both onto the floor. They sit there, clinging to each other, crying in earnest. After a few seconds, his father joins them. Before long, the entire family is surrounding them in an embrace that loosens the tightness in his chest. It’s like a chain that’s been spun tight, and now the links are slowly unchinking.

     “I miss him. I miss him so much,” he whispers to no one in particular.

     “I know, Dear.” His mother is the one to reply. “We all do. We all miss him so deeply. But we cannot stop living because we lost him. We simply have to live _for_ him now. Yes?”

     She cards her fingers through his hair and kisses his forehead. George feels like such a fool in this moment. So caught up in his own pain that he couldn’t see how obviously the rest of his family was hurting, and he did so little to help them, acting like a ghost haunting the burrow. Not anymore, though. He’ll do his brother’s ultimate sacrifice justice, and live his life to the fullest.

     - - -

     One week later, he opens Weasley Wizard Wheezes back up. Business is surprisingly good. The wizarding world is still in good spirits, and people are ready to continue with their lives.

     He smiles, he jokes, he eats. He slowly starts filling back out again, and the gaunt look he’d adopted is nothing more than a memory. The circles under his eyes get lighter and lighter, until they fade completely. He’s no longer plagued by nightmares when he sleeps, and the knife in his heart feels smaller every day, until it’s more of an unpleasant splinter that sometimes gets rubbed the wrong way and sends a frisson if discomfort through his body. His heart still aches for his brother, but it’s not the disarming, crushing force that it once was.

     Angela and Lee stop by at the grand reopening. It’s good to see them, even with the pained look behind their smiles, the skin around their eyes a little too tight, and their grins a little too forced. He’s come to terms with it though, being a living reminder of his other half. He can only hope that in time, people will stop seeing the reflection of the Fred they lost, and start seeing the happier memories they have of his twin.

     After closing the shop for the day, the three of them go out for butterbeer. They laugh, and cry, and heal. The weight lifts a little more.

     - - -

     It’s an afternoon in July when he sees his reflection for the first time in two months. He’s trained himself not to look at reflective surfaces because it still hurts too much, feeling like he’s seeing his brother staring back at him.

     He and Angela are strolling Diagon Alley, arms hooked together while they enjoy ice cream cones. They’ve grown close, and George is finding that his feelings for her surpass that of just friends.

     They pass a shop that sells antiques, and Angela drags him in. She loves old things, and George loves to humor her. They peruse the aisles, walking up and down row after row of old, forgotten kitsch and knickknacks. They separate at one point, but that’s fine. She’ll find him with an armful of random treasures when she’s ready to leave. He walks by a large mirror, knowing better than to look at it. He catches something in his peripheral that gives him pause, though. Had he seen… two of himself?

     He steps backwards slowly, standing before the mirror but still not facing it. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, then hardens his resolve and he turns to look at the mirror.

     There he is, standing with an ice cream in hand, but there’s another reflection of him as well, a shade. He cocks his head, looking at it curiously. The absurdity of the situation tampers down on any emotional pain he expected to feel from seeing his reflection, so much like Fred, for the first time in a while.

     The shade of himself slings an arm around his actual reflection, smiling widely and flicking at his one remaining ear. That’s when he realizes… the shade has both ears. His smile is slightly more lopsided, and his left eye crinkles closed where the right one is slightly more open. George swallows thickly, looking at the imitation of his brother.

     The shopkeeper walks up beside him silently, and although George can see his reflection, it’s muted and in the background, behind him and his twin.

     “Quite a mirror, eh?” The shopkeeper asks. George can’t speak past the lump in his throat, so he nods instead, blinking rapidly to disperse the tears that threaten to wet his cheeks. _“The Mirror of Erised,_ it’s called. Shows you what you desire most in the world. It took me weeks to put a price on it. Kept it out back at first. Stood in front of it for hours, looking into my late wife’s eyes and wishing she would step out of the mirror to stand beside me on this side.”

     George clears his throat. He can’t bring himself the tear his gaze away from his brother, so happy and full of life, pretending to poke his melting ice cream.

     “It was and old friend who sold it to me. Came back a little while later, caught me sitting in front of it one evening,” the shopkeeper continues. “He told me, ‘it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live’. He was a clever man. I miss him.”

     “Does the pain ever go away?” George asks in a gruff voice, finally turning away to look the man in the eyes. The shopkeeper casts George an appraising look, not needing to ask for elaboration.

     “No, but it does get easier,” He replies honestly. “You don’t ever completely get over the pain of loss, but you learn to live with it. And one day, you might realize that it isn’t really pain anymore, but more of a somber remembrance.”

     Someone walks through the front door just then, and the shopkeeper leaves George to help them. George turns back to the mirror, and looks at the shade of his brother. Fred gives him a wide grin, not a care in the world. He mouths the words _‘I love you’,_ and clasps his reflection on the shoulder.

     “Love you too,” George whispers to the mirror with a sigh. He wouldn’t say it’s time to let go, or even to move on. But he realizes now that Fred wants him to be happy. It’s time to _live._

     George still doesn’t like mirrors, but there’s one that he’s partial to.


End file.
